


Mojave Roulette

by Kamzil118



Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Metro 2033 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Horror, Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:06:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kamzil118/pseuds/Kamzil118





	1. Russian Luck

__

_“War… war never changes.”_

_“If it’s hostile, kill it.”_

The Metro tunnels were quiet and dark, but it was home to its Russian inhabitants despite the mutants and their occasional attacks. It was a harsh life, true, but the surface offered little protection for humanity to survive. As much as many prideful citizens of the Metro held their pride in being better than monsters, it was simply a lie. Humanity was forced to live like rats, scouring the surface and frontier stations to survive and thrive.

Despite being decades after the bombs fell, there was one fact that remained with humanity, war. It was bound to happen in the stations aligning to their political beliefs. The communists and the fascists becoming eternal enemies for life while the capitalists made money off their wars. The only sensible people were the independent stations that stayed away from these conflicts, but they were too few, assimilated by the Nazis or the Reds, or simply dead.

Such was life in the tunnels, but there is one station that has survived all these years. The Polis Station and it’s Rangers. While the normal independent station would be killed by mutants or coerced into joining a faction, Polis was respected for its authority to broker peace in the Metro and fight creatures that threatened the last bastion of humanity as a hole. They were the white cells that fought off the monsters that tried to purge the last remains of humanity.

It was time to stop thinking, otherwise the rest of the guards would have yelled at him. Artyom, stood against the wall of sandbags and bricks, accompanying the older men guarding the northern frontier against any stray mutants. The young man was at the front of an extensive defensive line should there be two or more packs trying to break through.

Artyom felt a hand press onto his shoulder. “You should take a seat and relax.” An older man commented. Glancing over his shoulder, Artyom saw a bald old man take his seat underneath the lightbulb with his custom Kalash resting in his lap. After adjusting his cap, he looked up to him. “Boy, you should know that we have tin cans out there for a reason.” He said. “The mutants are too stupid to avoid them.”

Taking his words to heart, he sat across from the older man. “Bourbon, how can you be so comfortable when an attack could occur at any moment?” Artyom asked, concerned about the safety of his station. “Isn’t it a bit risky?”

Bourbon dragged a bag out from behind his chair and began to drag it over to his side. “Yeah, but so is running off to Polis all by yourself.” He replied. “Had I not known you would be Sukhoi’s boy, I would have let you go. Alas, here we are guarding your station.”

“Aren’t you worried about the threat of the Dark Ones? The Invisible Watchers? They could attack us at any moment.”

The man produced a bottle from his bag. “If I had to choose between these ‘Invisible Watchers’ or my debt collectors, I would choose the mutants. At the very least, they won’t suck my money out of my pocket every time I pass by.” He said jokingly. “Besides, maybe if I stick around they might leave Exhibition alone.”

Artyom lowered his head before he looked to his makeshift machine gun. It was not aesthetically pleasing, but it would do as his own weapon. He had been tasked to send a message to Polis Station about the threat of the Dark Ones, but the situation had changed. His step-father had told the guards to never let him out of Exhibition for his quest while the threat was still out there. Artyom couldn’t blame him, he didn’t want to lose his adoptive son to the dangers of the Metro just like how his mother was eaten alive by rats as they swarmed his former station. As he thought about it, he could never recall the name of his station or the face of his mother.

Then he smelled the scent of alcohol in the air. “Take a sip, it should pass the time while we are on guard duty.” The young man hesitantly reached for the bottle as he began to take a sip. “Kid, I want to make a deal with you before I leave.” He began. “It is something important.”

After removing the bottle from his mouth, feeling the burning sensation in his throat, Artyom looked to the man with questions. What does he plan to do?

“Do you remember when I taught you how to survive on the surface?” He nodded. “Good, when you get older I want you to remember those lessons I taught you and you will learn how to survive.”

“Bourbon, where is this going?”

“By the time I return to Riga, there will be Hanza debt collectors looking for me and they’ll probably confiscate everything I own to pay off my debts.” He answered before bringing his assault rifle out. “I’ll let you have this gun, but don’t tell Sukhoi I gave you this. It’s between me and you.” Then Bourbon looked towards the front of the defenses and turned his gaze towards the extra layers of guard posts far away. “Only go to the surface when you really need to. Otherwise, I want you to stay in your home and be safe. I don’t want you to go on that mission of yours and getting yourself killed trying to get a message to Polis.”

“Why not? A Polis Ranger told me to do it before he went up north.” Replied Artyom.

Bourbon’s expression went blank. “Artyom, you’ll find yourself on a road you’ll never expect and you will have one hell of a ride.” He explained as he passed the weapon over to him. “Here, it’s yours.”

In exchange for this gift, Artyom handed the bottle of vodka back to the man named after a drink only to get his hands onto the pre-war weapon. The Kalashnikov or the Kalash for short, was a prized weapon in the Metro. It was one of the few things of the past that had survived the harsh reality that was brought by the evidence of nuclear bombs. Artyom aimed down the sights of the Kalash towards the north tunnel, knowing that if he fired a shot it would have at least fired off in the direction he was guarding.

Despite being gifted such a weapon, Artyom’s eyes noticed a figure off in the distance. “Oh, my head.” Bourbon commented, catching the young man’s attention.

Artyom quickly glanced over to Bourbon’s body just to find him sleeping in a coma. He had seen these signs before when he was heading towards Riga Station, but this time he had to wake him up. As he rose from his seat, he glanced over to the front of his station’s defenses, but was met with three of those strange figures. This time, they were standing before him. He didn’t know when to be horrified or brave in the eyes of these creatures, but Artyom saw their strange features.

Theses mutants were tall and skinny. With their lengthy hands, their arms could reach out for something a normal human couldn’t reach, but it’s eyes were what concerned Artyom. The large eyes of the Dark Ones were looking at him, in his soul, without hesitation. The stories of men’s souls being broken at a whim were enough to terrify the young man about what thoughts went through their heads.

Then a voice echoed into his mind. ‘He is the one…’ All three Dark Ones reached their hand out towards him, but the voice seemed to soothe him despite its intention. ‘He has come to destroy us… No… He will be the ones to save us…’ Why were they talking to him in such a manner? Why were these creatures not maliciously trying to kill him just like his neighbors or his friends? ‘Send him…’ A strange feeling came over the young man as he felt stiff and terrified of their presence. What where they trying to do? ‘Do not be afraid… it is the best alternative…’

* * *

There was a bright blue light that shimmered before his eyes, catching Artyom off-guard. He had to close it, it was too bright for his eyes to handle before his hand covered his eyes. The light was too much for him, what were the Dark Ones trying to do. Then he felt his body violently brushed aside from below before he felt like he was falling, but it was only for a moment.

When his feet hit the ground, he felt the harsh feeling of his boots sinking in. However, there was one issue that concerned him. Why was the temperature warm? Moscow was not known for its warm climate, based upon the information he learned in the books. Artyom opened his eyes before removing his hand to see what had happened. Yet, his curiosity would have to wait on another time as five men were standing in front of him.

However, there was one who was different from the other, looking at him with a checkered suit with a sidearm in hand. “What in the… You know what, nevermind.” The stranger said as he directed the barrel of his pistol towards Artyom. “Sorry kid, but I can’t let you walk away with a beating heart.”

The young man raised his hands, but it was too late. The man’s gun fired and the last thing he saw was the two flashes from his pistol as his body slammed into the dirt.

“Bury this one. We can’t leave a trace.” The stranger ordered as he heard the dirt crunch past him, but Artyom felt the Kalash slipping out of his hand. “A Kalashnikov, what’s this thing doing here. Let me bring this baby with me, I guess tonight is worth the cost.”


	2. Bite the Bullet

Pain… that was all Artyom could remember. He had been scratched by mutants, felt their teeth gnaw at his body, and their claws holding onto him. However, it was nothing compared to getting shot. As time went on, Artyom noticed the pain in his head was slowly aching. Despite this small moment of peace, the young man wondered what did he deserve in life to deal with this? He should have been with his station, fighting the Dark Ones from overrunning his home and killing the defenders to the last man.

Then the thought of the Dark Ones occurred to him, why did they simply take the risk to come and meet him? These thoughts were strange because of how foreign the entity was at trying to meet with him. Artyom hoped there would be answers to this, clear answers, but in the world of the dying such answers were few and clean. A small cool breeze began to touch his face, demanding his attention. He opened his eyes, but with a simple hope that he would be having a dream of the strange events before he even woke up and lived his normal life.

Yet, it was never meant to be. When his eyes were brought back into the world, Artyom watched the ceiling’s fan rotating above him. This is what he had to wake up to in the morning. Strange, he never had anything like this in the Metro and Sukhoi wouldn’t have spent men or engineers to install a ceiling fan above him.

As he turned his head, Artyom watched from his cot and saw that he was in a room few people were ever given. In the Metro, a normal man would have been lucky to have a shack, but this room was different. The large space that was given for an old bald man walking around suggested either this man was rich or had plenty of time to make this much space for himself. “It’s okay, I’ll see what I can do to get you patched up.” The older man commented as he worked on the body of a woman resting in her cot. “Just sleep and I’ll see if I can fix this problem.

The young man looked around for a quick moment, only to take the opportunity to sit up from his resting place. As he sat up from his cot, Artyom felt a strange sensation going through his head. It could have possibly been the morphine to drown out his pain or the bullet wounds in his head. He would have to look in a mirror.

The doctor stopped working on his patient only to remove his instruments and turn around. “Oh, you’re awake.” He began before slipping his bloodied gloves off. When he walked over to Artyom, he took a quick seat beside the Russian. “Hey, don’t move too quickly. You’re still recovering from those wounds so take it easy.” A small groan slipped from the lips of his patient. “Young man, just lay back down and rest. I’ll see if I can get around to you.”

* * *

After the strange doctor was finished helping his second patient, he was content with a few words. “That gal is going to need plenty of time recovering before she could be on her feet again, but she’ll be fine.” Then he took a seat beside Artyom’s cot. “Okay, young man. Sit up for me so I can make a quick look and see how you are doing.”

The young man did as he was told, sitting up to the man with the medical expertise. He groaned at the aching in his head. “Where am I?” Artyom wondered, curious to learn about his surroundings.

“Take it slow, you’ve been in a coma and I just want to see how you’ll do since I took those bullets out of your noggin.” The man answered as he gave out his hand. “Name’s Doc Mitchell, I’m the town’s doctor. Welcome to Goodsprings. What’s your name?”

“Artyom.” He said. “My name is Artyom.” Then he slowly reached out to shake his hand. “What happened to me?”

“You got shot. Thankfully, I was able to extract those nine millimeters from your head before they could do any more damage. Hopefully, you will be fine.” There was a small moment of silence between both people. “Strange, you have a funny accent. I haven’t heard of it before, but I do believe that it’s far from here.”

“Doctor, do you know where I am?”

Doc Mitchell leaned back in his seat with his eyes gazing upon him like a hawk. “Seeing that you’re not from Goodsprings and you don’t look like you’re from around here, all I can tell you is that you are in the Mojave Wasteland. If you want to know more, the Mojave has a bit of California, Utah, Nevada, and Arizona if we go by old-world states.” The older man explained to him.

At the mention of these names, Artyom grew confused as he began to think for a logical explanation. He looked back deep into his memories, recalling such names that were mentioned before, but he could only recall his childhood. In this moment, he remembered how one of the countries outside of Moscow was split into states, but one he could remember was California. Yet, this man mentioned that he was within California. “Wait a minute, I’m in America?” Artyom questioned. He nodded his head at the thought. “No, it’s impossible. I shouldn’t be here.”

The doctor raised his hands in goodwill. “Hey, calm down. Explain yourself. Maybe you can tell me what’s going on with you. It might be you recovering from that wound of yours.”

“You don’t understand, I am not from around here.”

“It’s okay, I’ll listen to you. Just tell me what’s up.”

“Doctor, I’m not from this place. I’m from Moscow Metro.” When Artyom’s words mentioned his familiar home, the bald man’s eyes lit up. Perhaps he was surprised as well at this revelation.

“You’re from Russia. Weird, I never thought we would ever find people from that part of the world.” Mitchell said to himself. “Say, what is a kid like you doing here?”

Then he recalled his last memories. “All I can remember is that I was doing guard duty in my home station until some mutants came up to me and… I don’t even know.”

The doctor leaned forward as his chin rested upon his hand. “It sounds so far-fetched, but I’ve heard of worse. I believe you.”

Artyom was surprised. Someone believed his story, one that was filled with enough nonsense to be called a madman, but this man took the chance to tell him that he was telling the truth. “Why? What makes you think you can believe my story?”

“It’s your accent. It’s not normal around these parts and people might say you’ll be talking funny if I let you out of here.” A groan escaped from the woman behind the doctor. “Okay, I better get you off your feet before I get back to patching her up.” Then Mitchell rose to his feet and began to walk onto the far side of the room. This time, he stood beside a strange machine with letters and numbers.

The numbers were easy to understand, but the words were difficult to decipher. It was strange, but as Artyom blinked his eyes, the words made sense to him. He didn’t know why, but this strange language was somehow making sense to him.

“See if you can walk over here, I want to see if you’ll be able to walk.”

The young man slipped off his cot and took a slow step. However, his feet were struggling to maintain a balance in his body as he walked over to the doctor. It was strange to think that his legs would be failing him at such a moment. Then his left leg succumbed to his own weight. Mitchell was quick to come to his aide, but Artyom raised his hand up. “Don’t, I want to do this myself.” He commented. Pushing himself off the wooden flooring, Artyom rose from the ground and continued his path.

When he finally reached the doctor and the strange machine beside him, he spoke. “That is some fine walking for a man walking out of the grave.” Doc Mitchell commented. “I think you can carry yourself well.”

“Doctor, do you know what happened to me?” He wondered.

“Other than getting shot? I don’t know, but I did see a few odd fellows slip into town.” He pointed towards his patient. “Turns out they had business with her, but somehow you got caught up in this debacle as well. Do you remember anything?”

Artyom shook his head. “Nyet, I don’t know a thing other than a man in a checkered suit.”

Mitchell’s facial expression turned sour. “I knew you would say that and I somehow knew it had to do with them. Are you going to do know?”

Yes, what was Artyom going to do? He was in the middle of nowhere with no one to help him out and a place unlike his own. Other than the doctor, Artyom felt he had no purpose in life. Despite these facts, there was a memory calling out to him. There shouldn’t be a reason for him to remember that moment where he was shot by the stranger, but his mind thought about it.

_ A Kalashnikov, what’s this thing doing here? Let me bring this baby with me, I guess tonight is worth the cost. _

Those words from that stranger made his blood boil. That man  _ stole _ his Kalash, a weapon  _ gifted _ to him by someone he trusted. Perhaps there was a purpose? At the very least it was something to look forward to after taking a shot to the head, but his mind settled in on the matter as Artyom thought about hunting that man and killing him. Strange, that was a policy for a Polis Ranger if someone took a life from their ranks. If only Hunter was here to think about his thoughts.

“Hey, you look red as a tomato.” Mitchell commented. “Mind you explain this to me?”

“You said there was a man in a checkered shirt that passed through here, right?” Artyom asked. “Do you know where to find him?”

“I don’t know. I just heard we had newcomers in town, but I wasn’t there at the time. However, you can head over to Prospector’s Saloon and talk to Trudy. She might know where those fellows went. After all, she knows what usually goes on in the town. Why do you ask?”

There was a tense feeling of rage within him. “Someone stole something from me, I plan to take it back.”

“If that’s the case I should worry about my other patient.” Mitchell said. “I think you’ll be fine enough, but before you leave I think I should hand this back to you. I didn’t want this stuff to get in the way when I was performing a procedure on you.” His hand reached out from behind his back with a familiar weapon in hand. “I don’t know what the hell this is, but I guess it’s a weapon you know about.”

“Bastard.” Artyom replied.

“What did you say to me?” The doctor demanded. “I just took the time to get you back together and this is what you say to me.”

“No, this is a Bastard gun.” He explained. “It’s a bastard to use, hence why it’s called a Bastard gun.”

Mitchell took a look at the weapon with curiosity. “Oh… that makes plenty of sense. Sorry for overreacting.”

Artyom began to laugh. “No worries, doctor. You’re not the first person to act like that when I have this around. Thanks for keeping this, it’s the only weapon I’m familiar with.”

“Well, I guess it’s time I hand this to you since I won’t be using it anymore.”

“Doctor, what are you talking about.”

“You see, I have this thing called a Pip-Boy. I don’t use it as much, but I think you’ll need it more than I do. Especially since you’re new around here and don’t have a map of the Mojave.” Out from behind his back, Doctor Mitchell revealed a strange wrist machine with a small computer screen attached. This device not only caught Artyom’s attention, but piqued his curiosity.

When Artyom was immediately given the strange device, he inspected the machine with curiosity. “What does it do?” He wondered. “I never had anything like this back in Moscow.” His fingers began to press buttons as the screens changed before his very eyes.

“Like I said, it’s called a Pip-Boy. It’s your own mini-computer attached to your wrist. Play around with it, you can figure it out along the way.”

“I guess I have to thank you for saving me and helping me get on my why. How can I thank you?”

“For me, just stay alive and be healthy. That is all I am asking form you.”

A smile escaped from Artyom’s lips. “Still, I have to thank you for doing this for me.”

“No problem.” The doctor replied as he walked away from the young man. “I better get back to work, my patient needs me.”

Strange, such actions in the Metro would get a man killed. However, this was not the Metro and this concept was rather strange for Artyom. Life was always harsh to him and now there was a chance of kindness coming his way. What were the possibilities of such things happening to him?

The Russian began to walk over to the nearest exit and as he unlocked the door, he felt a wave of hot air fly into his face. However, his eyes succumbed to the light as he raised his hand to defy the sun. In this moment, Artyom’s gaze fell upon the remains of the town that had survived the bombs just to learn he was no longer in Moscow anymore.


	3. Goodspring Kickstart

Exhibition Station was on high alert and Bourbon couldn’t blame the people in charge. Artyom was missing and it was all because of his drinking or perhaps his ill care when he was on guard duty. Sukhoi was going to give him an earful and perhaps throw him out of the station if he was angry enough. However, he couldn’t blame the man. Artyom was all that he was living for. No man should be calm when their adoptive son goes missing just after they achieve stalker age.

He quietly sat at his guard post, but his mind was elsewhere as he ensured no mutant dared to come past him. Whatever caused him to fall into a coma, it was not normal. There was something about it that made him worry about the possibility of experiencing the strange shit the Metro was rumored to have. He would have believed such were true in front of Artyom, but it was best that he didn’t express his fearfulness in the tunnels. People would make fun of him for being scared, particularly the Hanza guards. Thankfully, he wasn’t in Hanza territory and he was in an independent station that was out of their range of influence. Had Exhibition not be under threat of these ‘Dark Ones’ or the usual tunnel trash, they would have definitely threw him out.

Bourbon took another sip from his bottle of mushroom vodka, it was perhaps the shittiest drink to experience, but it would suffice. He missed the drinks in the days before the war, wine, bourbon, vodka, beer, or whisky. It was a pity that young men like Artyom would never experience such tastes of the paste before they were incinerated by the radioactive bombs. Instead, they would spend their life drinking bottles of shit that was preferable than piss.

His ears began to hear small scratches on the tunnel floor, but it concerned him greatly since he had not heard any scratching during his time on guard duty. Bourbon drew his automatic shotgun from his side and loaded a shell onto the clamps before pumping the shotgun shell into the chamber. Perhaps there was a lone mutant probing the station’s defense. He rose from his seat and manned his station, turning on the light switch, allowing his eyes to see the road ahead. There was something about it that irked him and he hated it. “Hey, who the fuck is there?” He questioned.

Silence was his answer. Maybe he was just hearing things, but it never harmed anyone to be cautious in the tunnels. To relax when there was danger was any man’s greatest mistake. Yet, his eyes were noticing something in the distance. He couldn’t make it out, but Bourbon sensed _someone_ was there. He didn’t know why anyone would be living in the Northern Frontier, there was nothing there for anyone. The figure of a man grew closer, but the stranger sprinted towards him. “Ave Caesar!”

The threat revealed himself in blood-red while dressed in football padding. This time, his hand was carrying a spear and as he slowed down he lunged the spear towards the guard post.

Bourbon was quick to take cover behind the wall of sandbags as the spear flew over him. When the wooden spear landed on the tracks, he rose from his cover and returned fire with three shotgun shells. The pellets gibbed the assailant’s body into pieces as he fell to the ground. “What the fuck?” Bourbon pondered to himself as he reached over to the bell on the left. The drunkard immediately rang the alarm and shouted to the layered defenses. “Anyone at their post?! We got company!”

His eyes looked back towards the main defenses and saw the station’s militia ran into their positions and manned their barricade. “Bourbon, get back here. We’ll cover you!”

From the north, battle cries shouted from the darkness as the stalker left his position for the better defended barricade. He sprinted towards the sandbag wall, sprinkled with spikes as the gated door was swung open for him. As soon as Bourbon got through, the guards were quick to close it shut before a man stepped in to forcefully reinforce it with sandbags.

“Everyone, get to your positions!”

Bourbon walked over and joined the militia behind their barricade as they loaded their Bastards and their Kalashnikovs for the fighting to come. Some were as young as eighteen, but others were older. Simple people of the Metro, people with ‘normal’ lives if it can be called in such a way. He immediately filled his clamps with shotguns shells while his fellow defenders slipped their magazines of dirty ammunition into their weapons. A hand fell upon his shoulder, surprising Bourbon as he glanced over his shoulder. “Sukhoi, what are you doing here? I thought you were looking for your son.”

Sukhoi, he was much older than Bourbon and his white hair proved how old he was. Unlike most men in the Metro, he had not reached any bald hairs while his wrinkled face expressed the stress he experienced. “I heard the alarm. What’s attacking us? Is it the Dark Ones or just the usual mutants?”

“More like _who_ is attacking us. Apparently, someone is attacking us from the Northern Frontier. I don’t know who, but all I knew is that the fucker decided to throw a spear at me.”

“Bourbon, have you been drinking too much?” The leader of Exhibition asked.

“No, I’m not stupid to do something like that. Maybe off-duty, but that doesn’t matter. Right now, someone is attacking your station.”

Sukhoi shook his head in disbelief. “A new breed of mutants and now this, I wonder what we’re going to deal with.”

One of the defenders alerted everyone. “Look, there’s someone coming in!”

Sukhoi was quick to stand behind Bourbon as flashes erupted from the darkness and flew in their general direction. “Get down!” He ordered. The men were quick to duck behind their wall of cover as the hail of gunfire pinned the militia from defending their positions. On the right, the gunner’s hands was holding the handles of a heavy machine gun while he crouched behind the concrete wall. “Ivan, I need you to suppress those guys.”

The gunner shook his head in acknowledgment before he stood up behind the safety of the gun shield and returned the heavy ammunition back on the flashes in the darkness.

“Men, return fire! Return fire!” Sukhoi ordered as he drew his Kalash from his side and peeked over. Then he pulled the trigger and began to inspire the younger men into joining Exhibition’s defense.

Bourbon made three quick breaths before he stood up and began firing his Shambler upon the attackers. With each pump, he watched as the assailants fell in the open to the gunfire of the Exhibition defenders.

A man beside him took a bullet, slumping onto the ground before he screamed in pain. “Motherfuckers, I’m going to kill you!” While his hand was pressed on his wound, a doctor dragged him away from the barricade with a trail of blood following him.

The fighting continued, but Bourbon noticed a heavily armored soldier walking forth with a giant sledgehammer in both of his hands. “Take him out!” Bourbon shouted as he blasted the next shots into the armored soldier. To his surprise, the man’s armor was enough to protect him. “Get a DShK on that fucker!” Although he was a stranger from another part of the Metro, the machine gunner headed his orders and focused the full firepower upon the armored warrior.

The attacker with the sledgehammer charged forth, but the heavy mounted machine gun was enough to put him down. The large caliber rounds riddled his armor without mercy causing him to fall over and land face-first into the ground. When his blood began to spill onto the tunnel tracks, it was clear he was dying. However, killing him seemed to have an effect as the attackers began to flee from the barricades while gunfire followed after them.

Bourbon finally felt safe, knowing they wouldn’t return, but he noticed Sukhoi looking around. “Whoever these people are, we can’t let them have a second chance.” He said. “We’re going to have to blow the tunnel, get the charges ready we need to close off the Northern Tunnel.”

The drunkard stood up beside the leader as he lowered his automatic shotgun. “So, what are you going to do now that the fighting is over?”

Sukhoi saved a glance to the man, but his expression was different from Bourbon’s last encounter. “Bourbon, you might think I’m crazy, but I need you to head over to Polis and tell them about this. The rest of the Metro _needs_ to hear this. No one has ever returned from the Northern Tunnels and to see that these people arrived and attacked us makes me worry there is something wrong.”

“Me? To Polis? Are you crazy, my friend? They’ll never let a man like me just to meet with the Council. My reputation as a drunkard in debt isn’t exactly a secret.”

The older man shook his head. “Damn, you’re right.” He said as he turned his head over to the bodies. “Maybe you can convince them. Look there, see if you can take something off of their bodies and show them to Polis. It might be enough evidence to get the Spartan Order to come over here and help us.”

“Are you sure?” Bourbon questioned. To be given a task that was similar to Artyom’s made him wonder if he had any thoughts just like him about the matter.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay then, if I end up leaving I want to make sure you and the rest of your people-here can hold out while I’m gone.”

“We’ll be fine. If the Dark Ones haven’t destroyed us, these people won’t.” Sukhoi assured him.

* * *

The heat on Artyom’s body was new, refreshing, but uncomfortable. Although the Moscow Metro was cold, who would have thought that the heat could be so terrible to a man’s soul. As he walked to the front of the building, he looked up at the sign and see it read ‘Prospector’s Saloon’. Why could he understand this weird language? This question concerned him, more than he ever wanted to ask.

Lowering his head back to the earth, he saw an old man rocking back and forth in his chair. His face weary, but his eyes could still be enough to scare him. The strange hat he had on him made Artyom wonder, but he didn’t want attention to himself. “Young man, what’s wrong with you?” He asked in his old creaking voice. “Can’t you read the sign?”

The young man expressed a smile to the man of his age. “No, it’s just that I’m not around here.”

“So I heard that you’re the other person that Victor dug out of the grave. I’m surprised that two could take a bullet and live. Though the gal doesn’t look like she’ll do much.” The old man commented.

“I don’t want to be rude, but who are you?”

The old man raised his eyebrows. “Me? Everyone calls me Easy Pete. I used to be prospector before I decided to retire to this good ole’ town. What about you? What brings you here?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” It was an honest answer. Maybe a half-truth, but it was still the truth.

“I see. Why are you still here? Did the doc say that you should be resting?”

Artyom shook his head. “I’m here to find someone who goes by the name of Trudy.”

“Oh, she’s inside.” Pete replied as he pointed to the door. “She’s the owner of this place, nicest person you’ll ever meet. She’ll make you a meal you’ll never ask for and you can’t say know to a person her.”

He nodded his head. “Spasibo, thank you.”

“You talk funny, but maybe that’s just me. Welcome to Goodsprings, young fellow.” He was a nice man that was all Artyom could think about him. Old, rough, but was nice enough to give him directions. It was strange to think that Bourbon was something like him.

As the Russian walked into the saloon, he looked around to hear the glasses and the drinking around the corner. However, he couldn’t explore when there was a dog and it’s owner present. A blonde began petting her pet as she raised her head and smiled. “Hello there, you seem like a new face in town.” She said. “Say, what are you here for?” The girl asked.

“I’m here for Trudy.” Artyom answered. “Do you know where she is?”

“Look to your left and you’ll find her.”

“Thank you.” He said, turning away from the girl taking care of her pet. The young man followed her direction and it came to fruit when he noticed the stools and the seats were empty while an older woman was standing behind the counter, wiping glasses with a rag. After she was finished with that glass, she continued with another. “Excuse me, are you Trudy?”

After catching her attention, the woman placed the glass underneath the counter and expressed a smile as she came over to him on her side of the counter. “Yes, I’m Trudy.” She answered. “Welcome to my saloon- wait a minute- you’re one of Mitchell’s patients. No wonder why you looked so familiar.”

“You know me?” Artyom asked, curious about this woman.

“Of course I recognize you. I saw Victor bring you and the courier gal over to the Doc’s house. Now I don’t trust Victor, but it’s good to see that you’re still alive.” Trudy answered. “Now, do you know anything about that courier gal. Doc said she didn’t seem too good.”

Artyom was immediately reminded about that girl who lied on her cot, moaning and groaning. “I don’t know. I didn’t stick around enough to notice her.”

“Well, what a pity. I hope she’s alright.” Her attitude immediately changed. “Now that you’re up, let me cook you something good for you to eat. You looked starved. Don’t worry about paying me, this one is on the house.”

Trudy did not need to do that, but Artyom didn’t object such a meal. It was a rarity to find people like her in the Metro. Even the cooks at their stations wouldn’t be so keen on feeding a complete stranger if there wasn’t anything in return. The sad part; however, he was not here for the meal. “I appreciate the meal, Trudy, but I am here to ask some questions.”

The woman turned away from him and began to head over to the refrigerator. “Sure, ask away.”

“Do you know anything about a man in a checkered shirt walking around?” Artyom questioned. “I want to know where he is.”

After the lady closed the refrigerator, she walked over to his side of the counter with a plate of steak. “Oh, the kid from the city? Yes, I remember him. He brought some Khans with him and told them to be all hush-hush about some big payday.” She explained to him. “Not hard to forget about them since one of them ‘accidentally’ knocked my radio over. Before they left, I heard they decided to head south since there was some sort of commotion going on up north. The question I want to know is what kind of business did they have here?” Her eyes were looking straight at him.

Artyom shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

Trudy expressed a smile as she slide the plate over to him. “Alright then, enjoy your meal.” She said.

He looked around and noticed that it was just himself and Trudy. Rather than break the silence, Artyom took his seat at the counter and picked up the silverware set beside his plate. After he sliced a piece of meat away, his fork slowly reached into his mouth. When his mouth savored the taste, the taste made him feel alive. The sense that he had reached the forbidden fruit of heaven when his meals in the Metro consisted of mushrooms. There was the occasional bits of pork, but it was rationed for the rest of the Metro in case the mushroom farms didn’t grow well. Even at celebrations it was very rare to find meat. If there was a chance to return back to the Metro, he would have to tell his people at Exhibition and perhaps everyone else about this place.

Artyom turned his head towards the door when he heard a loud kick swing it open. Who would open the door so forcefully?

At the doorway, a shaved dark-skinned man stepped into the saloon with his hands on his hips in a blue uniform covered by his armored vest. The stranger looked around and began to walk into the area where the counter was. As he passed by, his eyes noticed the young man at his seat. “What the fuck are you looking at?” He demanded. Artyom immediately turned his head back to his meal focusing on the meat.

Yet, he couldn’t ignore him. There was something about the man he didn’t like. The very same feeling he had when he made contact with bandits along with Bourbon.

When the man took a seat on the far side of the counter, he began to get the woman’s attention. “Joe, what are you doing here?” She asked. “I thought you were looking for Ringo.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Trudy. I know you have that piece of shit in this damn town.” Joe accused, confronting the waitress across the counter.

She crossed her arms. “Again, I’m going to tell you once more we don’t have him here.”

“One of these days, my boys and I are going to search the town whether you like it or not.”

Trudy was not convinced at his intimidation. “Look, are you going to be buying something or not.”

Joe slipped out of his seat and did not bat an eye towards the woman as he departed from the saloon. When he was at the doorway, Artyom took one more glance at the man, only to see an acronym marked on his armor, ‘NCRCF’. Was he part of some kind of authority around these parts? Why could he understand this strange language?

“Don’t mind him, he’s just barking with no bite.” She commented.

Curiosity about this matter made him stop eating for a moment. “Who was that man?” Artyom questioned. “He’s seems hostile.”

“Him?” Her eyebrows directed where the man departed from. “That’s Joe Cobb, he’s one of the Powder Gangers who broke out of the NCR Correctional Facility south of here. He’s looking for a guy named Ringo and I hope he leaves and brings the trouble with him as well.”

“What would happen if I helped Ringo? Get him out of the town or confront this Joe.”

Trudy was quick to express her skepticism. “I don’t know. You just got out Mitchell’s house, but if you do manage to get rid of Joe you’ll be doing this town a huge favor. Though, it might bring more trouble if killing Cobb reaches the facility.”

“The facility?”

“It was a prison that was used to be runned by the NCR, the New California Republic. That place would be used to get people to work on the lines, but the problem is that dynamite and criminals don’t work well.” She explained to him. “After they broke out and killed the guards, they called themselves Powder Gangers.”

“Why does he wear that uniform if he’s a criminal?” He asked.

“Joe probably killed the person who owned it and now wears it.” She replied. “Be careful if you meet with them. Pete says they’re nothing, but trouble and he usually doesn’t say something like that around these parts.”

After learning about this place, Artyom returned his attention towards his meal while his thoughts were focused getting rid of these bandits. Strange to recall his moments when he first traveled the Metro with Bourbon. Perhaps there was something to learn from his small experience.

* * *

Artyom walked out of the saloon with a full stomach as he was given a back of a strange drink called ‘Sunset Sarsaparilla’. He had heard many names for drinks, but this one was the strangest of them all. Trudy had told him that it’s a drink that doesn’t give off radiation while it also doesn’t make him drunk. It would have been amazing if it was introduced into the Metro since its taste was preferable to the mushroom Vodka.

As he slowly walked towards the edge, he heard someone crying out for his name. “Hey, where are you going?”

He turned around, curious about the person. “Wait, you are that girl from the saloon. What are you doing here?”

“Sorry I didn’t introduce myself, name’s Sunny Smiles, Trudy asked me to warn you about going off to south. I’m just here to tell you to be careful when you head down there. The only safe place there is this town called Primm. It’s the town with the roller coasters.” She explained to him.

“Roller coasters?” Artyom asked.

She shook her head. “It’s the town with the fancy structures. You’ll have to pass by the prison, but the gangers will keep themselves.”

“Are you sure? You said there was a prison I have to pass by.”

“Unless you’re a merchant or from the NCR. They won’t bother you unless you bother them.”

“Okay, thank you for help.”

The young woman expressed a smile. “No problem, just want to assure Trudy that you’ll be safe since you just got out of Mitchell’s table.” She turned away and walked back towards the saloon as the young stalker looked around. He was all by himself and without any sense of direction in this strange place.

Artyom continued to walk out of the town, but there was a strange feeling that someone was watching him. There was a possibility that Sunny was doing the watching, but her attitude didn’t fit the feeling. He stopped in his tracks and observed his surroundings, he noticed a strange dark figure on the mountains on the right. When he blinked his eyes, the dark figure disappeared. “I must be seeing things.” Then he noticed an inhuman figure looking at him from the left, but unlike the previous watcher there was a white mark on it’s face. However, it turned away as its figure disappeared over the horizon.

The young man drew his Bastard gun as his finger lay near the trigger. Whatever was watching him, he had to remain cautious.


	4. Roadside Picnic

The road was quiet, very quiet. Aside from the bestial cries in the night, the young man continued on his journey looking for the man who stole what was rightfully his. As he continued on his journey for his Kalash, Artyom took a quick glimpse at the Pip Boy, observing its strange design. He heard tales from Polis that there used to be devices like these, but were no longer useful once the world died. If he somehow got their attention with this device, perhaps they could come to his home station just to learn about its secrets.

Then his heart ached when he thought about his home, the people he knew as a child, and it’s wonderful tea the station exported. Artyom’s mind continued to think about the danger Exhibition was in with the mutant threat getting out of hand. He had promised to help Hunter send a message to Polis and fight the Dark Ones, but Bourbon already prevented that possibility from happening. Artyom wanted to blame him, but didn’t want to. No one from the rest of the Metro knew about the threat of the mutants that plagued his home and perhaps they didn’t care.

However, he removed his thoughts about home as he began to take a another glance at his Pip Boy. His thumb clicked on the middle button that read “Inventory”, but what did that mean? The screen began to change into a different set up while it piqued his curiosity. Then his eyes noticed the five sections his inventory was made up.

‘Weapons’

‘Apparel’

‘Aid’

‘Misc’

‘Ammo’

Before he could continue looking into his Pip Boy, Artyom knew better than to be a sitting target. He looked around and found there was nothing on the road that he could shelter in. The east was barren and filled with nothing, but open desert as the west landscape was filled with hills. The terrain could potentially hide him, but it could also endanger him. Danger lurked in this place and just like the surface of the Dead City every step could be his last.

To his surprise, there was shelter present. His gaze fell upon a small trailer with a small campsite nearby. Maybe travelers used it every now and then, just like the stalkers.

Understanding that sleeping in the open was suicide, Artyom walked towards the trailer as he reached for his Bastard gun. The weapon’s sink and it’s stock was heavy, but he never complained about it’s weight. Having to avoid overheating the weapon in the middle of combat was a worthy trade-off he never wanted to have.

Once he reached the empty trailer, Artyom peeked his head in and found nothing except mattress on the floor. There wasn’t any pillows, but it was better than laying in the sand. He took his first steps into the trailer and flipped the mattress over, just in case. Ever since his first encounter with bandits in the Metro, he didn’t want the risk of detonating a bomb.

Luckily, nothing was underneath the mattress. “Good enough, I guess.” Artyom placed his Bastard gun in his chest as he laid his head back on the mattress. All that mattered was when he needed to wake. The last thing the stalker needed was opening his eyes as a prisoner to whoever enjoyed taking advantage over people. Problem was, how was he going to know someone would be coming for him. He could use the old tripwire trick with a grenade, but the blast would kill him in his sleep. The other available option was using tin cans at the doorway to alarm him of intruders. However, where was he going to find tin cans and some string?

The stalker drew his Bastard out and placed beside him as he laid on the mattress. It would remain as his response weapon against anyone if he remained awake. That was if he dared to stay awake.

Then again, he was going to take a look at the Pip-Boy while he remained in his little shelter. After bringing the device up to his face, Artyom continued to look through the sections within the Inventory system. It was a strange device indeed, but as he switched it into the weapon section his eyes widened in surprised. The device apparently knew what weapons was on his person and the kind of bullets it normally used.

‘Bastard’

‘Duplet’

‘Revolver’

‘Trench Knife’

This revelation made him curious. How did this Pip-Boy know? He wanted to ask it’s secrets, but Artyom knew that it will never tell him. After the bombs fell, perhaps that secret died with those who created this. Much like the men who made the Metro.

He immediately reached for his Bastard as he heard a crunch outside. Someone or something was coming. The young man aimed his sub-machine gun at the doorway as the crunching continued to get closer. Then he heard a man’s voice calling. “Hello, is anyone there I need help!” The tone of his voice was that of a desperate soul. Yet, Artyom knew to remain cautious and allow himself to be tricked.

With his weapon in hand, the Russian slowly sat near the doorway and saw the shadow of a man looking around frantically.

“Hello, is someone out there!” When his head turned towards him, his eyes were looking at him with hope. “Hey, I hate to bother you, but I need help.” The stranger began.

Artyom waited quietly as the person stepped closer. “Stop right there.” He ordered.

The man did as he was told. “What’s this all about? I’m not here to hurt you.”

“I’m not sure. It’s dark and you’re here shouting.” The stalker replied.

“Look, I need help. My sister is stuck on a ridge and is surrounded by geckos, I’m looking for someone to clear it out for me so I can rescue her.”

“Why are you two walking in the middle of the night?”

“Well, there was this refrigerator with some chems and I thought it would be nice to make some caps selling it. Look, my sister is in need of a rescue. I could probably share some of the chems with you.”

A way to make money on the side, perhaps it would do some good. However, there was a strange feeling that didn’t go well with the man. Why was this man looking for help in the middle of the night? It did not make sense, but then again the things he had heard and seen in the Metro beg otherwise. “Okay, you caught my attention. I’ll help you out, understand?”

“Got it, just please save my sister quickly!”

After this, he might sleep comfortably with a good deed done for the day. The stalker rose from his mattress and stepped out of the small shelter he found in the middle of nowhere. “Where is she?”

“My sister is up this ridge past the broken antenna tower. You won’t miss it.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of those creatures for you.” Artyom replied.

But the man expressed a curiosity when his eyes looked at his weapon. “Hey, what’s that. I haven’t seen that before.” Strange, why was he asking that question when his sister was in danger? There was something off about this man, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

* * *

The stranger was not wrong. There was a broken antenna that he passed by, but as he continued up the ridge he felt a strange sense of danger nearby. Artyom didn’t know why, but he could feel the threat getting closer as he went up the ridge.

After passing up a ridge, his eyes noticed figures running towards him. Since he lived most of his life in the dark tunnels, his sight was used to seeing in the darkness and the moon was up in the air. Artyom raised his Bastard as the three geckos ran towards him without hesitation. Were they they desperate? Doesn’t matter, his weapon would answer their hunger.

The stalker looked down his sights and gunned the three geckos in quick succession, but in short and controlled bursts. The SMG was best used in such manner, the only time it should be used automatically was when there was no room for aiming. The gunfire was enough to drop all three geckos to the ground as he made a slow ascent to the ridge.

The closer he got, Artyom noticed there was a refrigerator that was closed shut on the left.  _ Where was the sister? _ He wondered. The closer he gotten, he saw more geckos, but they were already dead when he arrived. However, their limbs were cut to pieces with a strange trap that ripped through their flesh.  _ This is not right. _

When Artyom arrived near the edge of the ridge, he found a table, a few chairs, and a body of a man whose blood was already spilt. Then he heard a click behind him. “Don’t move, pal.” It was the stranger who sent him here from before. “Sorry to trick you, but I needed you to clear out the geckos for me. Thank you for that. However, I’m going to have to kill you.”

Looking over his shoulder, the young man recognized the blonde’s face. “Why didn’t you kill the geckos if you had a gun?”

“I didn’t have enough bullets. Besides, I can’t aim for shit with this gun.”

Artyom had heard many stupid things said by people, but this was the worst of them all. “You shouldn’t have said that.” He replied.

“Why not? I’m not the one with the gun against my back.”

It was a risk, but it was preferable than letting that idiot kill him and fall to his death. The stalker rolled away from the edge of the cliff as his gaze fell upon the surprised fool. The man fired his pistol, but Artyom fell faster than the bullets could hit him. Rather than standing, he rested on his side as the trigger was squeezed.

The Bastard unleashed it’s quick reputation on Artyom’s assailant as he fell back, riddled with bullets. Once the man was on the ground, he rose from dirt and began to check for any signs of life in the man. The stranger gurgled in his own blood as his eyes began to look over to his gun and tried to use his remaining strength to fight back, but it was all in vain. Too much blood loss made him succumb to his inevitable death.

After the stranger did not move for a few minutes, he settled that the man was dead. “Pity, I actually thought you had a sister.” Artyom quietly said to himself as he looked away from the man’s eyes and off to his weapon. He grabbed the pistol out from the dead man’s grasp as he slipped the safety on and put it into his backpack.

Then he glanced over to the refrigerator behind his back and made his way towards it. It wasn’t a total loss.

Such was life in the apocalypse...


End file.
